Rebel Marquess

by Amy Sandas

  But this letter was very clearly directed to her. She took it up to her bedroom and carried it to her bed. She crawled up into the center and curled her legs beneath her. As she brushed her thumb back and forth over the inky lines that formed her name, her heart grew so heavy she felt as if it would choke her.

  She flipped the precisely folded letter over and over in her hands; afraid to open it yet also desperate to do so.

  What would he say to her? Would he say he understood? Tell her he had forgiven her even if no one else could?

  Ignoring the burn of her throat and the prick of regret behind her eyes, she opened the letter. There was no greeting. No signature. Just one stark bold statement—a cold directive.

  You will inform me if there is a child.

  Eliza’s breath froze painfully and she curled onto her side in the middle of her bed. The letter was clutched in her fist. For all the pain she was feeling, she expected great torrents of tears, but they did not come. After a while, she realized she could not allow herself to shed tears that would absolve her of her actions. She could not weep for what had happened, because it was what she had chosen. The pain and the guilt of her decision would be hers forever.

  Only two days later, she was able to send a response to the marquess. She knew he had only asked to be informed if she proved to be pregnant, but she felt bound to advise him either way.

  There is no baby.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rutherford stared at the cards in his hands.

  A winning hand, he suspected. But the acknowledgment gave him no pleasure.

  He had come to his club tonight hoping for a distraction. Or rather, Blackbourne had insisted that was what he needed.

  He had been continuing through his life these last few weeks as if nothing had happened. He attended balls and soirées. He rode every morning in the park and met his friends at the club for drinks and cigars. He figured all of that should have counted as proper distraction, but apparently the earl disagreed. When Blackbourne suggested a private game of cards with old friends and excellent brandy, though the idea held no more attraction than any of the other activities he had endured lately, Rutherford hadn’t seen a reason to refuse.

  He lifted his gaze to assess the other players around the table.

  Blackbourne gave nothing away in his easygoing expression. The earl could hold that innocuous half-grin through an entire Italian opera if he wished. Grimm, the poor fool, was the exact opposite. He revealed every little bit of joy or disappointment as if his face were a mirror to reflect the cards in his hand to the rest of the table. Apparently, he currently held a promising hand. The fourth at the table should have been Whitely, if the man was not at that moment pacing nervously in his study while he awaited the birth of his fourth child.

  Instead, Rutherford met the cock-sure gaze of a man who always managed to rub him on the raw. Of all the people Blackbourne could have tapped to fill Whitely’s place, Leif Riley, the Viscount Neville, was the very last person Rutherford would have chosen.

  “Lay your card, old man,” Neville prompted with a twisting smirk. “I’ve got much better things to do than sit here all night.”

  “Then go do them,” Rutherford retorted, turning his attention back to his hand with a distinct lack of concern.

  “Oh, I do intend to fleece you gentlemen for all you’ve got first. It is not often I have the privilege of sitting at a table with such respectable money.” The viscount flashed a jaunty grin before he reached for his whisky, apparently fine French brandy didn’t suit him, and tossed the liquor down his throat with an unceremonious flick of his wrist. Neville’s inflection made it quite clear he saw the invitation to the game as no great honor at all.

  Rutherford ignored him.

  Usually, he couldn’t stand the viscount’s cocky arrogance and intentional disrespect, but tonight he could not bring himself to be bothered by it. He tried to concentrate on his strategy, but after another long moment, he gave up and arbitrarily chose a card and flipped it onto the felt.

  The next few hours went by at an excruciating crawl. Rutherford barely paid attention to who won each hand. His attention kept sliding and he would find his mind wandering to other things.

  Irrelevant things. Thoughts that no longer held any significance but could not be shaken from his consciousness.

  In moments like these, when the activities of his life failed to draw his focus, thoughts of Eliza would come forward from the recesses of his mind. He recalled the pastoral image of her sleeping within the circle of ancient trees at Silverly. The impertinent twist of her lips when she challenged his perspective on gothic romance. Her smile, her hands, the taste of her lips.

  “Good God, Rutherford,” Neville exclaimed in mocking exasperation. “You play cards like a doddering old fool. Is your eyesight going? Do you need someone to sit at your elbow and tell you what you’ve got?”

  A quiet tension fell about the table after the viscount’s scathing reprimand and Rutherford realized he must have been staring at his cards for an inordinate amount of time. He should have experienced some embarrassment for being caught in a state of such inattention, or at the very least a bit of irritation for Neville’s audacity. But again, he felt next to nothing.

  He glanced to the earl. Blackbourne’s blue gaze was direct and his brows arched in question, as if he were wondering something very similar himself. Grimm sat with his shoulders hunched and his cards lifted in front of his face. His wide eyes bounced between Rutherford and Neville nervously. Poor Grimm looked as though he expected someone to throw a fist across the table.

  They were waiting for his reaction to the viscount’s blatant insolence. Not long ago, Rutherford would have cut him to shreds with very little effort and would have found immense satisfaction in doing so.

  After a moment, he set his cards to the table and rose to his feet. The other men stared as he gave a proper bow. “Neville is right. I am not in a proper frame of mind for cards tonight. I apologize for the inconvenience. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  He sensed the ripple of surprise that circled the table at his abrupt departure, but he continued from the room. He made it to the front door of the club when he realized he had forgotten his gloves and turned to go back for them.

  From just outside the entrance to the private card room, he heard Leif say in astonishment, “Bloody hell, Blackbourne. I thought you had to be exaggerating, but you were right. The bloke has a serious problem.”

  Rutherford stopped in the hallway.

  Blackbourne’s heavy sigh could be heard beyond the room. “I would have thought if anyone could jolt him from the strange trance he has been in the last couple weeks, it would be you. You always did get under his skin in the most annoying way.”

  “I even pulled out my best sneer tonight. The man is a bloody stone.”

  “What?” Grimm piped in, sounding confused as per usual. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing, Grimm,” the earl replied. “It didn’t work anyway.”

  “The marquess’ll have to figure his way through this on his own,” Neville said not unkindly. “Is there more whisky? I might as well enjoy another dram before I head home to give Abbigael my report of the night’s failure. I will never understand why my wife considers Rutherford a friend, but she has been worried about him since the, er…the …ah, what the hell do you call it?”

  “What? The wedding?” Grimm asked.

  “The non-wedding,” Neville corrected.

  Rutherford had heard enough. He had plenty of gloves. He turned and left the darkened club. Standing in front of the building, he waited for his carriage to be brought round and wondered at what he had overheard.

  He could admit a change had occurred that day in the church. He’d practically heard the resounding crack as the fissure formed inside him, separating him from his past, his expectations and from everything around him. But he thought all of that had just occurred deep beneath the surface. He had not realized it was appare
nt on the outside as well.

  The moment after he realized Eliza had slipped away, after the instant of stabbing pain, he had ceased to feel much of anything. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel anger. How could he fault Eliza for seeking her own happiness? In fact, he rather admired her courage and often worried about what consequences she may have faced from her parents. He imagined her mother would not have been pleased in the least. A few times he had been tempted to call on her, just to see how she fared. To assure himself she had not had to endure any harsh retribution.

  Then he reminded himself he had no claim to her or her welfare. He did not realize he harbored the small hope a baby had resulted from their lovemaking until he’d seen her words in stark black ink and felt a fresh stab of loss. But in that short note, Eliza had made it clear she preferred to face her future without him. He wanted to honor that now as he’d failed to do in the past.

  Sometimes, he wondered if he’d had the foresight to acknowledge the depth of her determination, could there have been a way?

  Ah, but that was a ruthless circle of speculation. And frankly, he was tired of it.

  Maybe it was time to leave town. He could go to the Continent, except he had no desire to travel. Or perhaps he could retire to the country for a while. Not to Breckmore Palace, but he had other properties, some of them in wild and remote places. Places where the wind swept across the moors with enough strength to clear even the most muddled brain.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eliza turned the book over in her hands.

  It almost didn’t feel real. It was too solid, the cover too smooth, the pages too crisp the scent of the glue in the binding too pungent.

  Yet it was no dream, and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment and excitement and fulfillment welled inside her until she worried she might explode with the enormity of her emotions. The brown paper that had wrapped the package from Whittier & Smith littered the floor at her feet in torn shreds. She felt an unexpected urge to twirl about but held herself back. A giddy laugh escaped and bounced around the attic room. She looked about, half-expecting some admonishment, but she was alone.

  The excitement of holding her very first published work swiftly faded.

  The attic had become her personal refuge in the last couple of months more than ever before. And though she had gotten quite a lot done on her next novel, it had been lonely work. Her mother still treated her like an unwelcome guest, and though her father had come around a bit and at least had been talking to her again, there was a distance between them that could not be ignored. Her sisters maintained different degrees of shocked incredulity, none of them able to comprehend what could have possibly motivated her to such a drastic act of defiance and disrespect.

  But more than her parents or any of her sisters, she wished she could share her accomplishment with Rutherford. The one person she believed might revel in her success even if just a little bit was the one person who never could.

  Her book would be available for the masses in only a couple of days. In the last letter she had received from Mr. Whittier, he had alluded to the potential of a promising career and requested a description of her next work. It was the start to everything she had ever dreamed of. And though it was exciting and terrifying at once, it did not ease the hollow ache that consumed her.

  An ache made all the more poignant after Eliza received a visit from Belinda.

  When the most reserved and private of her sisters was the one to first sit with her in earnest conversation, Eliza was surprised. But also grateful. She thought perhaps Belinda might be the one sister who would best understand why Eliza had done what she did.

  Had Belinda not lost her own passion for painting since becoming Lady Palmer? Surely she missed the magic of creating her lovely watercolors.

  But when Eliza suggested that very thing, Belinda had stared at her in open-mouthed shock. “Do not dare say you used my example as a reason to leave the marquess standing in wait at the altar for a bride who never came.”

  Belinda’s tone made Eliza flinch. She leaned toward her older sister, not expecting she would have to explain. “I remember the beautiful landscapes you once painted, the dreamy mix of colors you could manipulate in a way that often left people breathless. You cannot tell me you do not regret that you cannot create such beauty now that you are married.”

  Belinda continued to stare in astonishment. “Lizzie, whatever gave you the idea I stopped painting?”

  “But you did stop,” Eliza argued. “I have not seen a single watercolor in almost ten years.”

  “My word, Lizzie, I would not have expected you of all people to be so dense.”

  The muscles along Eliza’s spine tensed. She suddenly felt like a child trying to engage in an adult conversation without understanding the topic. “What do you mean?”

  Belinda narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she lapsed into silent contemplation. Eliza knew not to rush her sister through these moments. When Belinda rose suddenly to her feet, Eliza jumped up as well.

  “Rather than try to explain, I will show you. Come along.” And with that uncharacteristically short command, Belinda marched right from the parlor into the hall. The sisters stared at each other in contemplative silence as they waited for Belinda’s carriage to be brought back around. Eliza noted a strange sort of simmering energy in Belinda that she had either never seen before or had never thought to take note of. Seeing it now made her uneasy even as it piqued her interest.

  What on earth was her sister about to reveal?

  The drive to Palmer House was quick, and Belinda led Eliza straight through the front hall, not even pausing to discard their outer wear. Belinda strode like a general leading a recalcitrant soldier back to battle, and Eliza began to feel sheepish though she still had no idea why.

  Finally, down a long hallway on the third floor, Belinda paused outside a closed door. She rested her slim hand on the door handle as she turned back to Eliza.

  “Now, what I am about to show you in this room must remain between us. You must promise not to give any indication to anyone, especially not Lord Palmer, that you ever saw what I am about to show you.”

  Eliza gaped. She noted the high color in Belinda’s cheeks and felt a bit in awe of her. “I swear I will not breathe a word,” Eliza answered and felt the vow down to her bones.

  Belinda gave her a penetrating stare. When she seemed satisfied by what she saw, she took a deep breath and pushed through the door to enter the room beyond.

  Eliza’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  Canvases filled the space. They were lined up on the floor along the walls, in some areas three and four deep. There were nearly two dozen easels standing with finished and half-finished paintings. But it wasn’t just the evidence of Belinda’s prolific artistic creation that rendered Eliza speechless, it was the fact that not a single one of the paintings were done in watercolor.

  They were all rich, vibrant oils. The images practically breathed and moved with life of their own. As Eliza wandered into the room, drawn by the bold images, she acknowledged that from one canvas to the next, the subject matter was nearly always the same. Eliza should have been shocked, but her attention was captured by the transcendent depth of emotion present in each and every brush stroke. The resulting paintings were stunning.

  Each piece depicted Lord Palmer in some activity of daily life. There were no stiff aristocratic portraits here. Sometimes he appeared in evening wear sitting beside a fireplace, other times he was depicted atop his horse, looking the epitome of gentlemanly grace. Most often, Belinda revealed her husband in some degree of dishabille. In a few, he was nude.

  Love was obvious in each composition. Belinda’s love for her husband and a great deal of passion as well, but also her love of painting.

  Belinda stood with her back to the door, waiting as Eliza perused the entire collection. “I never stopped painting, Lizzie. My artistic expression simply evolved after I met George. He became my inspiration, my muse.�
��

  Eliza thought that might be a drastic understatement. Judging by the plethora of images around her, she suspected a slight obsession in the work.

  Belinda laughed a little nervously as she strolled toward a vertical stack of canvases and adjusted them into a neat row. “I know what you are thinking. I have thought the same myself. I imagine someday I will paint other things, but right now there are too many facets of George I wish to capture, and every day I learn of more.” Belinda looked at Eliza and smiled. “Shall we adjourn to another room to finish this discussion? It is starting to feel rather odd seeing you in the midst of all of George’s…glory.”

  “Excellent idea,” Eliza agreed with a breath of relief. “Your paintings are magnificent, Belinda. I did not expect to see something so, well, so passionate.”

  “And that is my point.” Belinda closed the door to her studio and continued farther down the hall to a small sitting room. She took a seat on a cream-colored sofa and indicated the spot next to her for Eliza. They turned toward each other and Belinda met Eliza’s gaze with earnest concern. “I have always loved to paint. It made me feel connected in a special way to the world around me. After falling in love with George and committing to a life with him, painting became even more of an extension of all I was feeling. It allows me to express the new and exciting and sometimes frightening discoveries involved in loving someone. Painting is an exploration now. Of myself, my emotions and passions.” She paused as a blush spread across her cheeks.

  “But I never stopped because I got married,” she said again after a moment. “I would hate to think that believing such a thing influenced you in your recent decision.”

  Eliza sighed, still feeling a bit off center by her sister revelation. “It did influence me, Belinda, but no more than the fates of any of our other sisters. I doubt they all found the freedom to paint their husbands in the nude.”